What to wear

Most mornings I drive up Clayton Road to Starbucks so I can sit and do some work without my Bigs trying to climb up into my lap to push the laptop keys or feed me Cheerios off the floor or take bites from my toast. Today I changed out of my sweats and put on a gray and yellow skirt, a darker gray t-shirt with a yellow etching of a San Francisco city bus, a colorful cotton headband from El Salvador, and sparkly flip flops. No make-up, hair pulled up into a messy bun at my neck in addition to being pulled back by the headband. I beheld myself in the full-length closet-door mirrors in our room and shrugged. Not hot, good enough.

On Monday I spent the day, sans children, in San Francisco. I took my time getting dressed and chose a pair of skinny jeans (non-maternity WOO HOO), a rust colored t-shirt from Target, tan and brown snakeskin flats (faux, of course), a statement necklace with a chunky olive-colored piece of glass on a copper chain, and a fitted gray stretchy blazer. I looked fabulous and when I saw my friends they told me so immediately. Later on in the day I walked alone down Mission Street, heading back to my car after having a burrito. I felt people checking me out. That hadn't happened in a long, long time. I wasn't strutting but I walked powerfully, shoulders back, head up, eyes ahead. Owning it. It felt good.

I lived in Madrid when I was twenty where men stopped me on the street and checked me out almost all the time. I was a tall, foreign-looking young blonde and people noticed me. Especially male people. At least, they were the ones who talked to me about it. Once while vacationing alone in Italy a man driving down the street passed me, stopped his car, backed up and told me in Italian "You are beautiful" and then kept driving.

It was the late 90's so fashion was much different than it is now. Among my clothes was a pair of absolutely gigantic denim overalls--extra-large overalls from the Gap. I'd wear them with Doc Martens and either a tank top or the softest grey cotton Timberland long-sleeved shirt in the world. I lived with a family during my year studying abroad and my Spanish mama Nella has a closet-full of dated but feminine, sexy clothes. She was constantly trying to dress me. She smoked three packs a day and spent almost all day laying in bed watching TV and smoking, unless she was cooking or ironing or cleaning. And also smoking. One morning she said to me "Odio those overalls." She said the whole sentence in Spanish but I can't remember the word for overalls. I do remember the verb she used--she hated my overalls. Hate. It carries more weight than in English when people say it all the time. She could have used a less intense word to say she didn't like them but no, she really hated them. I think it actually caused her pain to see me walking out wearing them.

I wore those overalls like armor on days I felt like being ignored. I've never really minded having men talk to me on the street. Often I've appreciated it. I know many women really dislike it, or hate it, and feel violated by men feeling free to comment on their appearance. I can understand that and if pressed to choose one social reality that worked for the most women I would choose to abolish cat-calling, whistles and comments on the street if it made more women feel safe and respected. I don't need those comments. I certainly don't dress for those men.

I think I've always felt that, if I don't want people to see me, they don't. I know that's silly and not true. On an overall-wearing day I would walk the streets feeling hidden, sort of like a little kid who covers his eyes and assumes that because he can't see anyone they can't see him. Whereas on a day like Monday I walked the streets knowing I looked good and feeling good about it. It wasn't an invitation for comments but I didn't mind. Having my female friends exclaim over how good I looked was welcome. So was being noticed on the street. And hell, after being pregnant for two years it felt amazing.

So often I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am absolutely shocked at what I look like. Hair in wisps all around my face. Circles under my eyes. Freckles and wrinkles and sun damage on my Irish skin. Small, soft belly. Bigger breasts than usual. Many days I'm wearing a pair of cut-off sweat shorts and a tank top with bra straps showing. My grandmother would be appalled. It's hot where I live and I get spit-up on or touched with dirty hands many times a day. I walked downtown in that exact outfit yesterday and didn't think anything of it. I felt comfortable and unseen, even as I pushed one of two double-strollers down the streets.

I like being comfortable. But I also like feeling feminine, powerful, sexy, elegant, womanly. Depends on the day. I used to dress for the occasion--not just the event but the people I'd be hanging out with. To fit in, to show the side of myself I felt most comfortable being with whatever friends I was with. Was I with my outdoorsy, music-festival friends? My super-stylish, done-up friends? My sporty friends? I shape-shifted. Back then I believed that I controlled what people saw in me and thought it mattered what version of me they saw. Now I just try to be. Part of that is finding a style that fits who I am.  A mama and a wife who works at home. I want to feel pretty and comfortable and like I care enough to put some effort into the face I present to the world, even if I really don't care who is looking. It's also important that I wear pants that don't show my butt when I bend down at the playground. Priorities, people.

A few months after the Bigs were born my friend the closet organizer, stylist came over and helped me clear out my closet, saying good-bye to many things I was holding on to for the sake of nostalgia. She laughed at me a few times, but she's my friend so that was ok. And it was 2013, not 1995 as she kindly pointed out. The next step was to buy a few key pieces and then try dressing in comfortable, age-appropriate, pretty, machine-washable outfits. She also taught me the term "statement necklace". Then I got pregnant again and all those clothes got pushed to the bottom of the bins again. Hello, old friends! Time to try again.